


call it magic

by thundersquall



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magic, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersquall/pseuds/thundersquall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s the faerie blood in me,” Patrick explains. </p><p>Jonny is just not equipped to deal with this shit.</p><p>OR, on March 17, Patrick turns into a faerie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it magic

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for St. Patrick's Day, but I'm posting it early since I'm going to be too busy all week :( It was originally meant to be crack-ish, but then it sort of devolved into a whole bunch of _feelings_. I am really, really bad at crack.
> 
> A huge huge thank you to Jen for helping to beta this! <3
> 
> Title from Coldplay's Magic.

It’s a Tuesday morning — a rare free day, no game or practice going on, something that Jonny is endlessly grateful for when he has the time to think back on this later — that Jonny wakes up to like, a zillion texts from Patrick on his phone.

Jonny’s first instinct is to be annoyed, as he so often is with Pat. When he finally pulls up the texts and scrolls through them one by one, though, his annoyance slowly shifts into anxiety. Because the texts, while whiny as only Pat can be, get steadily more and more urgent, and distressed, and _desperate_. Jonny does not remember Pat ever sounding this way.

> _jonny_
> 
> _jonny omg come over_
> 
> _pls man can u come over now???_
> 
> _jonny i rly need u rn_
> 
> _there’s a big problem jonny cOME OVER_
> 
> _ok not rly a big problem but still a problem_
> 
> _just come over_
> 
> _pls man omg why u gotta sleep like the dead so early_
> 
> _jonny i need ur help. pls_

Fuck. Jonny’s mind races with all the possible things that could have happened to Patrick, all the bad situations he could have gotten himself into, even as he grabs the first item of clothing he sees on the floor, a pair of ratty sweatpants and pulls them on one-handed while dialing Pat’s number with his other hand. Did he get some chick knocked up? Did he get into legal trouble again? Did he — fuck, they’re coming up on the first round of playoffs soon — get injured somehow?

The phone rings and rings. No answer.

Jonny’s just pulling a sweatshirt over his head when another message flashes on his screen: _can’t talk now. just come over please_

And that — that just sounds _bad_. Like what problem could Pat have that wouldn’t allow him to talk, but leave him free to text? Did he get into a drunken bar fight and have all his teeth knocked out?

He doesn’t even bother with brushing his teeth or combing his sleep-mussed hair, just gets on a pair of flip-flops, grabs his keys, and practically throws himself out of his house and into his car. In some ways, living in a house is better than in a condo, he thinks distractedly as he backs out of his driveway so fast he’s pretty sure he left rubber on the asphalt. At least an entire building wouldn’t be seeing an unwashed Jonathan Toews in dirty sweats, still with pillow creases on his face, sprinting down to the parking garage in flip-flops; he’ll have enough of that to deal with when he reaches Trump Tower.

He’s at a stop light, fingers impatiently drumming on the steering wheel, when the thought occurs to him. He pulls out his phone again and sends Pat a text.

_On my way. If this is some dumb prank, Patrick, I’m going to kill you and make sure no one ever finds your body._

Patrick’s reply comes a minute later. _no omg jonny i swear this is not a prank, i really need u. need ur help. jonny this is gonna be such a problem_

Jonny curses, and floors the accelerator.

\---

He only meets an elderly couple in the elevator going up to Pat’s floor, so that’s not too bad. They do give him the judgy-eyes, though, and the snooty-looking lady even pulls her coat tighter around herself and edges away from where Jonny’s distractedly trying to smooth down his hair, clutching her Chanel purse closer to her. Jonny manfully resists the urge to roll his eyes and step closer to her, just to be a dick. He’s the captain of the Chicago Blackhawks, not some random bum, for fuck’s sake.

When he’s out of the elevator and striding down the corridor to Pat’s apartment, he tells himself again that if this is a prank, he’s going to throw Patrick out of his condo windows.

He raps on the door when he reaches it and presses the doorbell, bracing himself for whatever it is when Pat opens the door (bleeding mouth with no teeth, a girl with a big pregnant belly, whatever). After a five-second beat, he tries again. Still nothing.

“Pat?” he calls, rapping again. “Dude, it’s me.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket just as he ramps up his knocking, feeling just a little on the edge of panic. _let yourself in, can’t open the door_

Oh shit, oh shit. Jonny’s hands are shaking so much when he pulls his key ring out and sorts out Patrick’s key from the bunch that he can hardly fit it into the keyhole. How badly hurt is Patrick if he can’t even get up to open the door? Are his knees bashed in? Did he break a femur? Fuck, the playoffs — _Patrick_ —

He finally gets the door open and stumbles in, calling “Pat? God, where are you?” as he slams the door shut behind him, not even caring that he sounds utterly desperate and scared.

“Here, Jonny,” a voice says, except - the voice isn’t Pat’s. It’s high-pitched and kind of squeaky and cutesy, but it’s definitely a male voice, and Jonny turns slowly.

Something is hovering in the living room, near the windows. Something flying. With wings. The winter morning sunlight pouring in highlights the blond curls, and the - the wings, a soft translucent blue veined with gold, and —

The face on the thing is Patrick’s. Patrick looking sulky and pouty. Or, it _would_ be Patrick, if Patrick is like, _five inches tall_ and has fucking _blue wings_ and is completely naked to boot.

“I swear to god, this is not a prank,” the tiny fluttering thing says firmly, in that high little voice, and yeah, that’s all different but the accent, the cadences of the words, the slight lisp, that’s definitely Patrick, and Jonny is just — not equipped to deal with this shit.

“I must be dreaming,” Jonny says, firmly, and pinches his own thigh. It hurts like hell, but it’s still not quite enough to get him to believe what he’s seeing, until the little winged Patrick flutters over to him and hovers right in front of his face, and shit, that’s Patrick all right, blond curls and huge blue eyes and wide mouth in miniature. With wings. And fun-sized — even more fun than before, Jonny thinks hysterically.

“This isn’t a dream, Jonny, this is happening, and I need your help now dude, and — I didn’t think it would happen again, god, I haven’t changed since like, four years ago — “

“Again?” Jonny repeats, stupidly, and in that exact same moment he feels his legs give out from under him.

He collapses on his ass, onto Patrick’s living room floor, and buries his face in his hands.

“Jonny, Jonny, god, I’m so sorry, I can explain, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t _know_ it would — “ and Jonny feels tiny hands on his fingers, tugging them one by one away from his eyes, until he cracks one open and finally looks at Patrick, tiny and sad and naked, wings beating slowly as the sunlight pours through them and casts light blue shadows on Jonny’s hands and face. He’s small enough that he could fit in Jonny’s palm, if Jonny holds one out and Patrick flutters down onto it.

“Then explain,” Jonny says, and when he sees Patrick take in a breath and open his mouth, holds up a hand to stop him. “I need to get a drink first.”

He gets to his feet, still wobbly, and staggers his way to the kitchen, Patrick shouting, “I got a six-pack of your Canadian beer in my fridge, man”, his voice all squeaky, and Jonny just wants to lie down and shut his eyes and preferably never wake up again.

“I need something harder than that,” he shouts back, and yanks open the door to the cupboard where he knows Pat keeps all the vodka and whiskey.

\---

“It’s the faerie blood in me,” Patrick explains later, when Jonny’s slumped on the couch. He’d had three shots of straight vodka, just downing them one after another, before he’d even allowed Pat to start speaking, and there’s a warm mellowness diffused through him, enough that he can lift his head to stare right at Pat, who’s perched on the arm of the couch.

“I need more information,” Jonny says, pouring himself another shot. He goes slower with this one, though, just sipping it slowly as he keeps his eyes on Patrick.

Patrick actually huffs, like Jonny’s the one who is making everyone’s lives difficult here. “It’s been like this in my family, as long as anyone knows,” he says, chewing at his bottom lip. It’s somehow comforting to know that some things don’t change, even when Jonny’s feeling like his entire world’s been yanked out from under him — the sun is still shining, Patrick still works his lips and tongue like they’re chew toys, and Patrick is also a fucking faerie. “My grandpa says we’ve got some faerie blood in us, maybe from thousands of years ago, maybe a great-great-great-great-great Kane had a child with a faerie way back in medieval Ireland, who the hell knows, and since then the eldest son of the Kane family has always. Changed. Sometimes.”

Humans mating with faeries? Jonny is definitely not drunk enough for this. He sips at his vodka again.

“So yeah, we change sometimes, but like I said, this hadn’t happened in four years, and I thought, maybe it had stopped for me, maybe my faerie blood’s too diluted for the change anymore, but then last night at midnight this — happened, and I texted you right away, and you were sleeping.” He manages to make both his wide blue eyes and his squeaky voice accusatory, and Jonny sighs.

“Whatever, and then? Now what?”

Patrick blinks. “Now? Now… we wait for me to change back, I guess. And you’ll have to help me with stuff — I’m pretty much helpless in this state.”

Jonny scrambles upright. “Wait, what? Can’t you just change back?”

Patrick looks at him like he’s stupid. “No, Jonny, what made you think I could control my changes? I already told you, I never know when it’ll happen.”

Jonny tries to keep his breathing calm and even. “Okay, then, how long does this usually last? How long did it last for you, in the past?”

“Not too long, I think,” Patrick says, looking thoughtful. “I usually changed back within a couple of weeks? Not more than two weeks, for sure. Oh no, there was that one time when it took me a month to change back, and my parents were like, going out of their minds —“ Abruptly, he cuts himself off, and slaps a little hand against his forehead. “Fuck. It’s March 17 today, isn’t it?”

“Yeah?”

“Ugh, grandpa warned me about this too. We’re always more likely to change on this date, because of the Feast of Saint Patrick.”

Jonny’s head is spinning. “I don’t get it.”

Patrick shoots him that _you’re-so-dumb_ look again, which, what the hell, wasn’t even fair, Jonny was dealing with his friend turning into a fucking faerie and being unable to turn back, and that — it’s a burden Jonny wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. “It’s my Irish blood, too,” he explains. “Irish, faerie, the fae folk, get it?”

“I thought Ireland had leprechauns,” Jonny blurts out.

“Yes,” Pat says exasperatedly, “but we also have gnomes, pixies, elves, and of course faeries, and all manner of fae folk in the old country. I don’t suppose they’re all that common now, they’ve been driven into hiding by all the humans, but trust me, a few thousand years ago? It’d be perfectly normal for them to mate with humans. Sometimes the blood manifests, sometimes it doesn’t at all, sometimes it skips generations. As far as I know, no one’s ever been skipped in the Kane family; every eldest son has always changed.” Patrick actually sounds _proud_. “I suppose my faerie ancestor was like, a fucking powerful one. Queen of faeries, maybe.”

“Ugh, just stop,” Jonny says. “You ought to have been a leprechaun instead. Or a gremlin. That suits you better.”

“I’ll piss in your fucking food, Toews,” Patrick says, voice even squeakier. “I’m a fucking badass faerie, you wish you were as cool as me.”

“In your dreams,” Jonny says dryly. This banter between them, this easy back-and forth chirping — it’s all still so _them_ , so normal, like nothing’s changed, and it’s that, of all things, which enables Jonny to take a hold of himself and calm down. Just a little. “How the hell could humans even mate with faeries? I mean, look at you, you’re —“ he gestures at Pat, hoping to convey _tiny as fuck_ with a vague wave of his hand.

“Oh, yeah,” Pat says, looking down at his still-naked body. “Not all faeries get this small. The change manifests itself differently in each of us — like my dad was normal-sized and had no wings — and our powers are all different, too — “

“Wait,” Jonny interrupts. “Powers?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, looking uncomfortable for the first time ever. “Yeah?”

“You have, what, _magic powers_? Oh my fucking god. This is getting more preposterous by the second.”

“Fuck you, I’ll show you preposterous,” Patrick says, scowling, and then his wings are fluttering and he’s hovering before Jonny’s face. He’s — really tiny. He can’t be more than four or five inches tall, but his face, his body, everything is perfectly formed, and still exactly Pat. Then Jonny’s distracted by Patrick flying forward and beating his wings, hard, in the direction of his face, and a fine pale-blue dust rises from his wings and blows into Jonny’s face.

Jonny shuts his eyes instinctively, but there’s nothing, and he smells nothing; doesn’t even sneeze, and the only thing he feels is a sudden warm swelling of contentment and happiness, rising from deep within his chest, suffusing every inch of his mind and body. All the worry and anxiety he’d been feeling has just disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a sensation of pure tranquility.

He blinks his eyes open slowly; Patrick’s still hovering in front of him, looking a little pink and oddly pleased. Jonny’s suddenly struck by how — pretty his wings are. Up close, they’re even longer than Patrick’s entire little body, long and wide and faintly blue, shimmering with gold threaded through. They match his blond hair and blue eyes. Which, Jonny thinks, are also very pretty. Hey, he’s not ashamed — he’s known Patrick for years, shared rooms with him, been all up in his space; he can’t be blamed if sometimes he looked over at the other bed and tracked the sharp curve of Patrick’s cheekbones, or looked a little too long at his thick lashes casting spidery shadows on those cheekbones, or noticed his soft, pink mouth and mobile tongue a little too much, and thought to himself: _God, he’s gorgeous_.

But now — now’s not the time to think about these things, when Patrick is the size of a hand and they have a game tomorrow and playoffs in a month and he doesn’t even know when he’s changing back. But surprisingly, Jonny’s not really worried anymore.

“Okay, what did you just do?” Jonny asks.

Patrick looks smug. “Faerie dust, Jonny-boy. That’s what I can do. Just make people feel happy, I guess.” He shrugs, his smile abruptly evaporating. “My dad can heal minor wounds, and the girls and I, when we were kids and got banged up or cut, he’d just make it all go away. That’s so much more useful than whatever this is.”

Jonny blinks, and then holds his hand out palm up, the one that isn’t still clutching the glass of vodka. After a moment’s hesitation, Patrick flutters down onto it and settles into the cup of his hand, nestling into it. It should feel weird, Patrick’s tiny bare ass on the skin of his palm, but it isn’t at all. Patrick feels soft, vulnerable, like he’s made of paper. Jonny is very conscious of how he could close his hand around Pat and probably crush him.

He does close his hand, but he’s very careful about it, and Patrick just — leans back against the pillars formed by his fingers and wraps his arms around Jonny’s thumb and peeks up at him.

Jonny has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Making people happy — that’s not a just, Pat, there’s nothing _just_ about it. It’s — you know, happiness is so rare, and — “ fuck, he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. Maybe Pat’s magic happy dust has made him stupid too. He drinks again from his glass of vodka, draining it this time.

Patrick grins, and flies out of his hand, hovering at the level of his mouth. He’s so close, Jonny can feel the feathery brushes of his wings against his cheeks as they beat lazily to keep Patrick in the air. He’s got a happy, stupid, sappy smile on his face, and a faint pinkness to his cheeks, and Jonny’s feeling sleepy and warm, so he plucks Pat from the air and settles himself on the couch, placing Pat in the chest pocket of his sweatshirt, next to his heart.

There are like, a million things Jonny needs to do — he needs to plan for the team, he needs to _tell_ the team and management, he still has more questions, he needs to get Patrick some elf-sized clothes somehow before he catches his death of cold — but. He’s just so happy and contented, and so sleepy from his mad rush this morning and from the drinking, and Patrick is warm and comfy in his pocket for now, if the burrowing into it and little ‘mmm’ noises Pat is making are any indication, so. Jonny doesn’t feel any particular rush to work this whole thing out.

“Talk more later,” he mumbles, and when he looks down Patrick is curled into a ball in his pocket, already asleep.

\---

Jonny goes out to buy food and try to find some size-appropriate clothing for Patrick. He goes home first to shower and shave and change into decent clothing, because there’s no way in hell is he going out into Chicago at large looking like he did, and carefully picks a t-shirt and a coat with chest pockets. Just in case.

He goes to a toy store first, and tries not to look shifty as he peruses the dolls’ clothes sections. He gets more than a few stares, of course — it’s not like he can hide, people in Chicago _know_ the Blackhawks — but he tries to look nonchalant and pastes a look on his face that he hopes looks like _I’m buying gifts for my little girl cousin who likes dolls_.

The problem is that even dolls’ clothes are way too big for Patrick — clearly toy manufacturers aren’t big on making dolls that are the size of an adult hand; even ‘baby’ dolls are the size of actual human babies, and Barbie dolls are like, much taller than Patrick, even if they are slender enough to be around faerie-Pat’s size. Jonny tries not to laugh openly at that as he files it away in his mind to taunt Pat for later. And also, there are hardly any boys’ outfits, because there seem to be no boy dolls. At all.

He finds himself wondering how Pat’s wings will fit, and if he can cut slits in the backs of the clothes that’ll allow Patrick’s wings to slot through. He just doesn’t think those wings should ever be hidden away or covered up.

In the end, he picks the smallest outfits he can find - some small t-shirts that will probably hang on Pat like huge dresses, and some jeans that he’ll have to cut half the legs off of, and, as a joke, a couple of pink dresses, bedecked with satiny bows.

Food — food is another problem. He thinks Pat ought to be able to eat normally, but where in cold hell is he supposed to find food items that are small enough? And cutlery is completely out of the question — Pat will just have to eat with his hands until this all blows over. After he’s stood in the supermarket cereal aisle for fifteen whole minutes just visualising Pat floating on a cornflake in a bowl of milk, he gives up and just buys whatever he knows Patrick likes. He’ll just cook as usual, and deal later with how Pat’s going to eat.

\---

“Ha ha, very funny,” Patrick says sarcastically, when Jonny throws the dresses at him as he enters the apartment.

“Thought you’d look pretty,” Jonny drawls. “Be a pretty faerie princess, Pat.”

Patrick scowls. “You think I look pretty anyway, dress or no dress,” he says, and it’s standard chirping for them but so uncomfortably close to the truth that Jonny looks away and pulls out the other doll clothes he’d bought just for something to do, even though he’d had vague ideas of keeping them hidden and pretending that he’d got no clothes except princess dresses for Patrick.

“Shut up, I got you t-shirts too.”

“Now this is more like it,” Pat says, delighted. He flies over and holds up one of the little shirts, a bright cheery yellow one, and Jonny was right, it’s still too big for him and hangs down to Patrick’s knees like a shift dress when Patrick holds it up against himself.

“Fuck you,” Patrick complains, pouting, and Jonny laughs so hard he’s got to hold his stomach to get it to stop aching.

They get the shirt on eventually, after Jonny takes a pair of scissors to it and cuts slits in the back and pulls the whole thing over Patrick’s head. Then he gently slips his fingers into the slits and tugs Patrick’s wings through. They feel gossamer-soft in his fingers, suddenly too big and clumsy for such delicacy, and god, Jonny is so afraid he’ll do something horrific like tear them, but Patrick seems completely calm, just sitting on the edge of the table until Jonny finally gets the wings out. He also gets some twine that he’d bought so he can wrap the excess material around Patrick and then tie it in place with the twine, like a makeshift belt. It looks more like a robe and less like a dress after he’s done.

“Sweet, man,” Patrick says, looking down at himself. There’s nothing they can do about the lack of underwear, but at least Patrick is now clothed, and Jonny can feel confident about the idea of eventually having to take Pat out into the cold Chicago winter without worrying that he’ll die immediately from it.

Patrick stays around while Jonny grills a steak and steams some vegetables for his dinner, sometimes fluttering about his head just to annoy him, sometimes sitting on the countertop; but by the time Jonny’s sliding onto a stool in front of the kitchen island, plate in hand, Patrick’s lit onto his shoulder and is tucked into the curve of Jonny’s neck. Jonny feels nothing more than just a little weight and heat there, lighter even than the feel of a hand pressed into his shoulder.

Jonny picks up his knife and fork and then hesitates. “How, uh,” he begins.

Patrick lifts off from his shoulder with the barest hint of pressure and lands neatly on the edge of Jonny’s plate. He looks like he could swim in it as he gingerly bends over. “Just cut me a piece, like so — “ he instructs, gesturing, and Jonny slices off a tiny piece of his steak, to Pat’s specifications. Even that piece is larger than Pat’s entire face. He sits down, legs dangling over the lip of the plate, and holds the meat in both hands as he would a burger, biting into it with relish.

“You look like a fucking barbarian,” Jonny says.

“Fuck you, I’m a star,” Pat says, garbled because his mouth’s too full.

When they’re done with dinner, Patrick makes Jonny fill a saucer with water so he can lean over it and wash the grease from his hands and face.

As Jonny watches him do it, a thought occurs to him. “So, hey,” he says, “you’re gonna need to shower, right? How are you going to do that without drowning?”

Patrick lifts his face from the saucer and shakes the water from his curls. “I’ll show you, when I have to do it,” he replies.

“What — I’m going to have to help you shower too?”

For some reason, Patrick’s entire face falls at that; Jonny has no idea why. He hadn’t really — he doesn’t think he’d mind doing anything at all for Pat, but his brain had got stuck on _I’ll show you_ , and the idea of doing something so — intimate, for Patrick, with Patrick, had made his mind go blank for a second. He’d just blurted that out without really thinking.

“Fine, so I’m a bother,” Patrick says shortly, lifting off his feet and floating off in the direction of the living room. “I made you go out and buy me clothes and make me food and now you have to help me _shower_ , and it’s all too much for you to deal with.”

“Pat, wait —“ Jonny tries, reaching out and catching Patrick in his hand before he can go out of his reach. Patrick frowns, and actually stomps his foot (Jonny barely feels anything), but he doesn’t try to fly off, just turns around and glares upwards at Jonny.

“Look, I know it’s tough, unloading this shit on you, but listen — if you weren’t here, if you don’t help me out during the change, I’d _die_. I can’t get myself any food or liquids unless I have someone giving me small bits that I can handle and putting fluids out in shallow saucers for me, that’s the only way I can drink. I’m too small to open doors or windows; I have no way of getting out of my apartment, or turning a faucet, or opening my fridge, or anything. Cupboard doors are still too heavy, and forget opening cans. If I didn’t have you, Jonny, I’d fucking starve to death while waiting for the change to be over.”

Holy _shit_. Jonny feels the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t even considered this, previously; he’d never stopped to think about how drastically this would affect every last minute detail of Patrick’s life. He certainly hadn’t thought about how Patrick could die.

“The only thing I could do was text — I had to like, fucking jump from letter to letter on the touchscreen to get it all down, but you were the only one I —“ Patrick breaks off, and frowns again at Jonny. “I trust you, okay? You’re my best friend, and you’re the only one I trust enough to get me through this, but if it’s such a trial, you can call Sharpy or Saader or whoever over now, and just go home.”

“Oh my god,” Jonny says, exhaling a loud breath. “I don’t — I’m sorry, all right? I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t — I don’t mean it, I swear.”

Patrick arches an eyebrow at him — his eyebrows are just as thick and disastrous as before, even though something about the change has made his curls more golden and lustrous, and his eyes even wider and bluer in his face. “Are you just saying that to humour me?”

“No, fuck you,” Jonny says, glaring down at Pat and trying to convey _burning sincerity_ and _most helpful BFF_ and _I love you and I’d kill bears with my bare hands for you_ with the force of his eyes. Okay, maybe not that last bit, but everything else.

It must work, because Patrick finally shrugs. “Fine, asshole.”

\---

They fall asleep in Patrick’s bed, Patrick tucked in Jonny’s pocket again like he’d been that afternoon. Jonny’s terrified of rolling over in his sleep and accidentally crushing him, but Pat had insisted. “I sleep better in this form when I’m close to someone’s heartbeat,” he’d said, face tilted away from Jonny and chewing at his lower lip, as if he was afraid Jonny would laugh at him, or something. “If I feel you move, I’ll shift myself so I won’t be flattened by your fat ass.”

“You can’t wake or move fast enough if I turn in my sleep,” Jonny had said, disbelieving.

Pat had shrugged. “I’m a faerie — the fae folk don’t even need sleep. I don’t need it either, when I’m changed; I just like to do it. And I’m fast.”

Nevertheless, Jonny’s first thought upon waking up is to check his chest pocket, and sure enough Patrick is sleeping fine in there, cheeks rosy from the warmth of Jonny’s skin and breathing deep and steady.

Jonny’s first feeling upon waking and finding Pat still alive is of overwhelming relief, but it's rapidly followed by growing anxiety as it dawns on him that Patrick is _still_ in faerie form, and there’s morning skate today, and he’ll have to figure out a way of telling the team and the coaches and management without it getting out into the league at large or scaring the living shit out of them.

He’s just about working himself into a silent stressed wreck when the tiny Patrick in his pocket yawns, and stretches — Jonny can feel his little shifting movements against his chest — and cracks his eyes open blearily, peeking out of the top of the pocket to look out at Jonny. “Morning,” he says, voice slightly deeper from sleep-roughness and sounding a little more like the normal Patrick, when he sees Jonny’s face and immediately begins shaking his head, clambering upright and then taking flight. “Oh no. No Jonny, you are _not_ stressing out first thing in the morning.”

He sounds more than a little amused. Jonny doesn’t know if he loves or hates that Patrick knows _exactly_ what he’s feeling, just from seeing it on his face.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Patrick says, his tone now tinged with the slightest exasperation, and flaps his wings hard. Before Jonny can react, he catches a glimpse of shimmering blue dust, and then that lovely feeling of contentment and serenity settles upon him again, his thoughts slowing down and sorting themselves out carefully instead of whirring together in a tangle. Suddenly, telling the team doesn’t seem like such a huge problem anymore. He’s the captain; he’ll just have to stand up and do it. It _is_ his job, after all.

“That’s not fair,” he manages to say. “You can’t just come and — make me all happy.”

Patrick’s face falls a little. “That’s _all_ I can do, in this form, Jonny.”

And Jonny would honestly rather walk over bonfires in bare feet than see Patrick’s face like that, so he adds, “If you bottled this and sold it, you’ll be richer than Midas.”

That gets Pat smiling again. “Come on, nerd,” he says, fluttering about in slow circles. “Make me some scrambled eggs, and then we’ll talk about how we’ll break the news before going in to skate.”

“What? How the hell do you even know what I was thinking,” Jonny splutters. “Don’t even tell me you can read thoughts or something now.”

“I don’t have to read thoughts, Jonny,” Patrick says, surprisingly gentle. “I _know_ you too well.”

\---

The Unveiling of Faerie Patrick goes surprisingly well.

They’d both agreed over breakfast that it was best just to gather everyone who needed to know and just — tell them everything, and then Jonny would whip Patrick out of his pocket as proof, all _ta-dah!_ , like ripping off a bandaid.

Shawsy is the first to shut his mouth in a roomful of gaping jaws, all gazing silently at Patrick fluttering next to Jonny’s head and grinning nervously, and say, “Fucking hell, Kaner, can I take a photo of you and tell Chaunette, please please? I’ll make sure she takes it to her grave, but man, she loves all this stuff, you know? Fairies and elves and shit like that. Oh man, Kaner, she’s gonna love it.”

“Team and the organization _only_ ,” Jonny says firmly in his captain voice, turning his hardest captain eyes onto Shawsy. “We can’t risk this getting out at all, or Kaner could be in danger. Not a word leaves this room, you get me?”

Shawsy subsides, nodding, jaw slack again as he computes the bit about how Patrick could be endangered if this information about him gets out.

But his enthusiastic reaction seems to open the floodgates; Duncs is next, leaping up and going over to inspect Patrick, mumbling, “Holy shit. Holy _shit_ ” under his breath as he examines Pat from every angle. “Fuck, it really is you.”

“Yes, it really is me,” Patrick says in a tone obviously meant to imitate Duncs’ breathy, amazed one, but with his voice as squeaky as it is, it doesn’t quite have the mocking effect he’d intended. Duncs doesn’t even care, too engrossed in his scrutiny of Patrick’s wings.

Sharpy comes over as well, and then suddenly the entire team is on its feet, surging about Jonny and Pat like a giant wave of bodies, all jostling to get in close to really _look_ at Patrick, while Pat just grins at everyone.

Hossa heads towards Jonny though, instead of Patrick, eyes knowing, and launches into a spiel about how this apparently happens in Slovakia too, which, shit, really?

“Yes,” he says in his slow, even way. “My uncle’s wife, she changes too. She is part —“ he says something in Slovak that Jonny doesn’t understand, and frowns a little. “It’s a — I don’t know what it is in English?” He pulls his phone out, presumably to start thumbing through a translator, taps a few buttons and then — “Nymph! That’s the word. She changes into a nymph, sometimes; she has the blood. It happens.”

He pats Jonny on the shoulder in a way Jonny supposes is meant to be comforting, but Jonny is like, absolutely done with his team. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, lifting his voice above the clamour, “is there anything else you guys want to spring on me? Any one hiding any more secrets? Crow, are you gonna tell me next that you turn into an actual crow or some shit?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Crow says calmly.

No one else responds to him; they’re all too caught up in trying to get closer to Patrick and look at him until they’ve satisfied themselves that yes, he is one hundred percent a faerie, and Sharpy’s even begun to talk about how Patrick’s totally a “real little peekaboo” and “the height you are now is closer to your real height than what’s stated on your Wikipedia profile, Kaner”, while Patrick mock-pouts.

Later that day, the Blackhawks release a short statement that Patrick Kane is day-to-day with an upper body injury.

The statement most definitely does not include any mention of the uproar in Q’s office when Stan and Q and Rogowin had been gathered there by Jonny, and before Jonny could break the news, could even _say_ a word, Patrick had decided it would be a great time to be a cheeky shit and flew out of Jonny’s pocket and said, “Hey guys!”, bright and happy, like their star player flitting about as a little faerie was not going to be a big fucking deal to management.

“Oh yeah, we’ll definitely miss our _little_ Peeks out there,” Sharpy says in the post-practice interview later, putting completely unnecessary stress on the ‘little’ and eyeing Jonny meaningfully from across the room, waggling his eyebrows a little. Jonny knows that look. He knows that look doesn’t bode well. Patrick is safely locked in Q’s office, which means that Jonny feels free to shoot Sharpy the deadliest of death glares that he can muster.

“Can you tell us the exact nature of his injury?” one of the reporters asks.

Sharpy shrugs, still smirking at Jonny. “We’re not sure. He probably pulled something, _flying_ about on the ice the way he does, you know how he is.”

Jonny wants to bang his head against his stall, but he desists. There are still too many people around for him to display exactly how done he is with this team.

\---

Jonny’s all but moved into Patrick’s condo since this thing started, by mutual agreement. In reality, they’ve never really talked about it or agreed on anything, and neither of them raised the suggestion, but after that morning skate he’d driven back to Patrick’s condo with Patrick curled up in his pocket next to his heart, and they’d argued a bit over which movie to watch on Netflix and hung out on the couch as usual; and Jonny had made dinner and shared it with Pat, and then he’d ended up crawling into Patrick’s bed with Patrick tucked snug into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Like, it’s all perfectly normal for them both, except the sleeping in Pat’s bed part and obviously the part where Patrick is a tiny fucking magical creature, which really makes it hit home for Jonny, how maybe the way the guys tease them about being codependent losers isn’t that far off the mark.

He even finds like, an entire drawer full of _his_ clothes in the spare bedroom, from underwear to jeans and tees and even a full gameday suit hanging in the closet, and it throws him for a bit. He’d known that he does stay over at Pat’s pretty often, and he leaves clothes there sometimes; but he didn’t even realise how much stuff he’d had here until he’d seen it, and when he thinks about it he realises that Patrick probably has a fuckton of his clothes over at Jonny’s home as well — he remembers laundering sweatshirts with the logo of the London Knights, douchey t-shirts proclaiming BUFFALO BOY, jeans and slacks that are too small and short for Jonny.

Fuck.

\---

They have a game the next day against the Canes; the Hawks win 3-1, but it isn’t an easy win without Patrick lighting it up on the ice with them, finding open lanes for them that no one else can see, and Jonny is so pumped with relief after that he barely even thinks about it when he turns towards Patrick’s condo on the drive back, Patrick in his pocket again and jabbering on about the game and the team’s plays with him in his hilariously high faerie voice. Jonny doesn’t even mind; Patrick’s chatter is like an anchor in his mind. He’s grown up with it; he thinks he’d feel completely alone without Pat’s voice in the background of his daily life.

Jonny is ravenous when he gets in, like he always is after games, so he fixes himself some salad and turkey breasts and has some fun with Patrick by floating a small lettuce leaf in a plate filled with water and then setting Patrick on it like it’s a boat, laughing when Patrick laughs delightedly and kicks his feet in the water, splashing it all over himself. He’s in a red shirt-dress today; he’d insisted on wearing red to the United Centre tonight, even though they couldn’t even let him in the locker room with all the media and guests milling about and he’d had to spend the entire night locked in Q’s office again, watching the game on the TV in there.

“This reminds me,” Pat says suddenly, looking down at his wet outfit. Jonny’s putting his dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and when he’s got it running he turns back to look at Pat.

“I need a bath.” He looks up at Jonny from under his lashes as he says it, as if daring Jonny to freak out and leave him, but Jonny’s always been great at rising to the occasion and responding to dares.

“Fine, let’s go,” he says, cupping Patrick gently in his hand.

In the ensuite of the master bedroom, Patrick directs Jonny to fill the sink with warm water after stopping up the drain. Jonny’s got about two inches of water in and is measuring the temperature with a finger when a rustle by his feet draws his attention. He looks down to see Patrick tugging the twine belt off and then smoothly lifting the shirt over his head. His curls are rumpled when he emerges from it, but he’s grinning, and he flies up to hover in front of Jonny’s face, stark naked.

Jonny doesn’t even know why he feels so warm; and then he realises he must be flushing. He ducks his head, hoping Pat can’t see, and begins backing towards the door.

“Uh, so I’ll just leave you to —“

“Where do you think you’re going?” Patrick asks, sitting himself on the edge of the sink and then pushing off, sliding down the curve with a loud whoop like it’s a water slide and splashing loudly into the water. “Oh my god,” he gasps when he bobs up. “This was always my favourite bit, when I turned. Feels like I’m in a heated pool.”

“I’m — going out? Leaving you to, y’know, do your thing,” Jonny mumbles, keeping his eyes averted. And this is just ridiculous, he has absolutely no reason to be behaving like a scandalised Victorian maiden; he’s seen Patrick naked a million times, in the showers, in the locker room, in the hotel rooms they shared for so many years — hell, he’d held Patrick naked in his hand just a day ago and had him sleep, bare-assed as a newborn baby, in his pocket.

But a day ago his mind was still struggling to absorb and comprehend everything about Patrick, and the alcohol had made everything fuzzy. Now, though, now his mind is sharp, and clear, and focused fully on Patrick. Beautiful Patrick with his wet curls and pale skin and the strong muscled lines of his body, albeit in miniature; Patrick whom Jonny has nursed a futile crush on since they were rookies and knew he could only look but never touch.

“Dude, I can’t fly when my wings are wet,” Patrick grumbles. “I’m going to need a hand to get out of here when I’m done. And you gotta get me the shampoo and stuff too, I can’t do it myself, can I?”

Jonny blinks. “Right,” he says, and his voice comes out sounding thankfully normal. “Sorry, I guess I thought you’d — want more privacy, or something.”

Patrick laughs, easy. “Please, as if you wouldn’t want a chance to get your eyes and hands on all this.” He gestures down at himself, obnoxious and grinning, and — yeah, his thighs are still gorgeously firm with muscle, there’s drops of water trickling down his chest, his dick is — everything is still Patrick, shrunk down to five inches, and Jonny should absolutely not be getting aroused by a nude faerie. He’s a little horrified by himself, actually; this is all so _wrong_.

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better,” Jonny tells him, turning around to look for the shampoo and shower gel, just so he can force himself to stop staring.

It doesn’t help, though, when he squeezes a little drop of shower gel onto Patrick’s body and has to watch it sliding thick and gooey over Patrick’s shoulders and arms, watch Patrick rub it into all the spaces of his body that Jonny has ached to touch for years. Or when he has to lift Pat out of the cooling water, Patrick holding on to his thumb for balance and pressing his torso against it while water runs down his body in rivulets. Or when he has to _help dry Patrick off_ — they’d both forgotten to cut out a small piece of towelling that he could use — holding him tight in the cup of his hand while he rubs the corner of a towel as gently as he can over his hair and pats his wings and body dry, down to his feet. Jonny’s pretty sure his hands are shaking, and there’s no doubt Patrick can feel it, standing as he is in Jonny’s palm, but he doesn’t say a word until Jonny gets a new shirt and helps him to put it on and knot his twine belt around him again.

When they’re finally done, Patrick smiles up at Jonny, his eyes wide and sky-blue. “Thanks,” he says, dimples popping, and Jonny really, really wishes Patrick was back to his normal size, because he really fucking wants to kiss him right now.

“Anytime,” he says, and his voice is still normal, but he must sound a lot more polite and stiff than usual because Patrick laughs and says, his voice insufferably _fond_ , “You are so Canadian, you dork.”

It isn’t until he’s climbing into Patrick’s bed for the third night in a row, Patrick snuffling and tucking himself against the warmth of his chest, that Jonny realises: he’s moved into Pat’s condo, they’ve both been doing shit like leaving their clothes at each other’s homes and cooking together and hanging out on the couch, and — what the _fuck_. They really _are_ living in each other’s pockets; in Patrick’s case, literally so.

Jonny honestly has no idea how both he and Patrick could have missed seeing this for so long.

\---

The thing about Pat is, well, how much _cuter_ he is in faerie form. Not just because he’s tiny and has lovely wings and a high little voice, but his overall demeanour and mannerisms change as well. He pouts a lot more, for one, bottom lip jutting out and occasionally even _wobbling_ slightly, when he gets teased. He’s effusive in his praise and affection, instead of chirping and being a general dick to the guys. He does things he’ll _never_ do in his human form, like stomping his foot, or flapping his hands when he’s excited, fluttering about in tight happy spirals. He blushes easier, too, the apples of his cheeks flushing pink if anyone says something flattering to him, dipping his head like he’s shy as his blond curls fall over his forehead and face, and it’s a cliche but he looks like a porcelain bisque doll. An enchantingly pretty doll, like someone’s taken extra pains and loving care to mould him and paint him all these pinks and blues and creams and golds.

Jonny is _beyond_ fucked.

He’s thankful for the homestand; it means that he gets to take Patrick into practice and games, where the guys generally fuss over him and coo at him and help to distract Patrick. But Patrick laps it up; he loves attention, loves being watched and liked, and as a consequence, plays up his cuteness to an alarming level. He bats his eyelashes and widens his eyes, flashes dimpled grins at everyone who so much as looks over at him, flutters among the guys and laughs squeakily. Once Jonny had been watching Saader holding Pat in his hand and stroking his wings, and Patrick had actually _tilted his head to the side_ and looked up at Saader with a pleased smile and cheeks looking like they’d been dusted with blusher, and said, “You’re so great, Saader”, and actually giggled.

Saader is charmed to his very core. So is the rest of the team. And that’s just — Jonny knows that people love Pat, Patrick has always been a people magnet, has always succeeded in getting people’s attention and indulgence, just grabbing it from them and holding it tight until people are falling over themselves to love Patrick Kane, fans and friends alike — but to see it in action, the entire roster visibly captivated by this tiny, adorable Patrick to the extent that they don’t even try to chirp him about it anymore, is another thing altogether.

“Please stay like this forever, little man, you’re too sweet like this and I prefer this to the usual asshole you are,” Sharpy pleads after the last game of the homestand, which is unfair, Jonny thinks, Patrick’s usually only an asshole to Jonny or Sharpy. He’s always encouraging to everyone else and polite to fans and great with children; he really is _sweet_ , for lack of a better word, it’s just magnified now with the change, like the way it’s made his hair look like spun gold instead of its usual dark blond and his eyes bright ice-blue. They’d won again tonight and the media have been ushered out and Patrick’s just floating around the room, smiling brightly and telling everyone how amazing they were, concentrating on the rookies (Jonny may be the captain, but Patrick’s always been excellent with the new boys) — “Scottie, that save you pulled off in the third against Eberle, that was spectacular, how do you even do it?” “Teuvo, your stickwork was great, loved that pass down to Bicks, excellent vision —“

“No,” Jonny says, too loudly, and _everyone_ turns to look at him. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say it; it had just burst out of him like floodwater rising over a riverbank. But he can’t explain — he can’t tell anyone about the sour little knot that had risen in his throat as he watched Pat with the others, wondering why Patrick’s being adorable and sweet at everyone except Jonny, why Patrick still pushes Jonny like nothing’s changed, when he changes for everyone else. “I mean — no. We need Kaner out there, or have you guys forgotten?”

“Shit, that’s cold, Taze,” Sharpy says, shaking his head in mock-sadness. “Is that all you want Kaner back for? To get on the ice and win games for us?”

“ _No_ , fuck off,” Jonny says. “I — he can’t stay stuck like this forever. He’s too vulnerable like this. He could get hurt, or someone could find out, and — “ he trails off, because everyone is still staring at him. He’s determinedly not looking at where Patrick had been, hovering a few stalls away from him. “What?”

“Awww, Tazer,” Sharpy drawls. “I take that back, it seems that Kaner’s sweetness is rubbing off on you but you’re just too constipated to know it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonny says, throwing his hands up, but then a light, familiar pressure lands on his shoulder, and there’s a tickle and then warmth as Patrick settles into the curve of his neck, not even appearing to care that Jonny hasn’t showered and is still sweaty and kind of gross.

“So protective, Jonny-boy,” Patrick says, muffled into his neck, and the words are mocking but the tone — Pat sounds soft, warm, affectionate, and it makes the bitter knot in Jonny slowly dissolve like a pill in water.

\---

Now that he’s actually living with Pat — even if it’s just for two weeks or however long it takes for this thing to wear off — and doing things for him like helping him to wash, and sleeping with him tucked against his heart, Jonny’s not sure he’s good enough to keep his feelings off his face whenever he looks at Pat.

It could just be Patrick’s happy power. He uses it freely, whenever he thinks the team or Jonny need a pick-me-up — like three games ago when they were down 2-0 to the Blues after two periods and the mood in the locker room was ugly and sombre. He’d flown in a slow circle around the room, glittery blue dust trailing behind him, and it was almost palpable how the blackness had seemed to lift off everyone like a dark cloak being pulled off, how Jonny had felt pure, unadulterated joy bubbling up in his chest and the sudden certainty that yeah, they could do it, they could go out and win this. And he’d stood up and told them as much, and everyone had gone out and played with renewed energy, and they’d fought back enough to force the game into overtime. They’d lost in OT, but everyone remained light and cheery, even Jonny, and he didn’t even brood after the loss when they got home, like he would have normally.

So yeah, Patrick’s pretty good at cheering people up when he’s his normal self, but he’s fucking _ace_ in faerie form with his happy dust, and it’s not far-fetched to think that some of that joy probably spills over into extra love and affection for the source of it. Except — Jonny’s always wanted Patrick, has wanted him for _years_ , and the sort of happiness that Patrick gives him now is alarming in how it threatens to tip his feelings from simmering just under the surface into full-on adoration.

It fills Jonny with cold dread whenever he thinks about Patrick finding out, to be honest. Their entire friendship is predicated on the fact that they’re just that, just _friends_ , nothing more. If Patrick ever catches on that Jonny wants to kiss him breathless 50% of the time, fuck him stupid the other 50%, and 100% do something sickeningly domestic like set up house with him and hold him when they’re watching shitty sad movies, it’ll all be ruined.

Because Jonny’s pretty certain that Patrick doesn’t feel _that_ way about him, and he’d much rather have Patrick as just a friend, forever tantalisingly just out of reach, than to not have Patrick at all.

\---

It all goes to shit eighteen days after Patrick’s turned into a faerie, and they’re in a hotel room in Montreal, after a demoralising 5-2 loss. It was a fucking _shitshow_.

Jonny’s tired as fuckall, and he hadn’t played his best out there, he knew it; 18 minutes TOI and all he’d had to show for it was a high sticking minor. And he didn’t even have Pat with him; there’s nowhere safe in Bell Arena to leave him, and Jonny simply doesn’t trust anyone else to handle Patrick when he’s not around, so Jonny had left a pouting Pat behind in their room with the TV on and turned to the channel where their game would be shown, and then proceeded to get thoroughly schooled by the Habs.

The moment he walks into their room, Pat gets all up in his face, flapping around his head and squeaking at him. “Jonny, shit, what the hell happened out there tonight?” he’s saying, wings beating wildly, and Jonny is _so_ not up for talking about the damn game right now. So he says nothing, just tightens his jaw and proceeds to strip, but already he can feel his mood start to lift a little, just from looking at Patrick and his beautiful gossamer wings, even without Patrick needing to use his happy faerie dust. He’s not sure how that makes him feel, knowing that Patrick’s mere presence can make him feel better. It’s always been this way, no matter how foul a mood he’s in, how angry their fights are.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tie, flinging them to the carpet. Patrick gives an indignant little squawk.

“Hang your clothes up, or they’ll crease,” he says, an oft-repeated refrain Jonny heard all the time for years, back when they were still rooming together on road trips and Patrick spent every night bitching about how messy Jonny was and complaining that he was a slob and threatening to switch roommates.

He never did, of course.

 _Why didn’t he?_ Jonny wonders, suddenly, and then wonders why his brain’s gone off on such a tangent.

“Jonny,” Patrick says, still flying about his head in circles. It’s dizzying, and Jonny drops down onto the bed, blinking to clear his eyes. “Jonny, oh my god, pick up your damn mess.”

“Patrick,” Jonny says slowly, carefully, “please shut up.”

That gets Patrick all up in arms, of course. He hovers in front of Jonny’s nose, hands on his hips, so close Jonny can feel his eyes start to cross as he struggles to focus on Pat. “Fuck you, asshole. I’m trying to talk to you here. Don’t take out your bad mood on me.”

“I’m not —“ Jonny begins, but he sees Patrick’s eyes begin to narrow, and his wings curve back. “No — Pat, stop.” He grabs hold of Patrick. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Why not?” Patrick asks. “You’re all huffy, if this gets you happier you’ll actually behave like an actual human being instead of stomping about like the weight of the world is on your stupid shoulders — “

“No,” Jonny says clearly. “I need my mind to be clear for once, okay?”

“What the fuck,” Patrick says, and he’s clearly angry now, his face red, and his voice high and cold. “What are you saying, Tazer? That I’m — spelling you, or some shit? That I’m doing dubious things to your mind?”

Jonny reels back. “What?” he says, flabbergasted.

“That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” Patrick says, and he’s yelling now, or as much as his faerie vocal cords will let him. “Your freak faerie friend has been using magic on you, and I know you don’t say it, but it makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? I can see it in your face all the fucking time, Jonny. Me being a faerie, it freaks you out. You’re only staying with me and shit because you are too fucking responsible to leave your teammate to die of starvation. Because if I didn’t get back on the ice, where does that leave the team, huh? That’s all you care about, isn’t it?”

Jonny can hardly believe it. The situation’s swung out of his control so fast, it’s like a wildfire, and Jonny has no idea how to extinguish it.

“You don’t freak me out,” he says, as firmly as he can.

“Bullshit,” Patrick says, his eyes a deep angry blue, and god, even in his anger, Patrick’s so gorgeous, flushed scarlet, like a shard of bright, sharp steel. “I told you, I see it in your face. You hardly ever look right at me, you just dump me on the team all the time, and even when we’re home you refuse to look at me. It’s like you’re so fucking creeped out by me.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Jonny bursts out. “Pat, I can’t — I don’t look at you, because I can’t think when you’re around me.”

“Yeah?” Pat shoots back. “Faerie casting magic spells on you to scramble your brains, that’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“No!” Jonny shouts. “No, you moron, I can’t think because — you’re fucking gorgeous, and I can’t look at you because if I do all you’re going to see on my face is how much I fucking love you, although I keep asking myself _why_ —“

A blinding flash of light interrupts Jonny, and he shuts his eyes instinctively, wincing. Light spots dance behind his closed eyelids. There’s an abrupt heavy weight in his lap, and when he can finally blink his eyes open, it’s Patrick. Patrick back to being normal-sized, human again, blinking rapidly at Jonny, his face so close Jonny can feel his quick, shallow exhalations of breath against his mouth.

Jonny is too startled to even speak, but Patrick has no such problems, fisting his hands in Jonny’s white shirt — it’ll probably be irredeemably creased with how hard he’s clutching at it — and tugging him close.

“Say that again,” he demands, his eyes wide, and — yeah, those are his eyes, not as startlingly bright blue as his faerie eyes but still thickly lashed and wide and pretty, and his voice is back to its usual deep register.

Jonny looks down without meaning to, just to check that everything is back to how it should be, and it is; but Patrick’s nipples are a soft pink and peaked in the cold air of the room, and when Jonny drops his eyes even lower Patrick’s dick is lying thick and soft against Jonny’s stomach, and there are tiny scraps of red fabric scattered about that Jonny realises used to be the little doll-sized red t-shirt that Pat had been wearing, ripped apart with the force of Pat’s change.

It occurs to Jonny suddenly that he’s got Pat naked in his lap, and Pat’s legs are spread open to fit Jonny between them, his thighs pressed tight to Jonny’s sides and caging him in. The lines of his quadriceps are clear under his skin, the muscles solid and hard against Jonny. He's so fucking hot that it makes Jonny's head spin.

“I —“ he says, and falters when Patrick pulls him closer still, enough for their noses to brush. The shift of Pat’s body draws his attention to the fact that he’s got one hand on Patrick’s hip and the other on the small of his back, just on the swell of his naked ass. He doesn’t even know how his hands got there.

“Say that again,” Patrick repeats, sounding frantic. “Say what you told me just now.”

In the face of such an onslaught, Jonny has no defenses whatsoever. He's certain that better men than he will break with a lapful of naked Patrick Kane.

“I love you,” he says helplessly. “I fucking love you, you piece of shit.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says through clenched teeth. “Fucking finally.” And as Jonny sits in shock, he tugs Jonny in with a hand screwed into the hair at the back of his head, and Jonny goes, fitting his mouth to Patrick’s like it was meant to be there all along.

Kissing Patrick — Jonny has no words. It’s like an electric shock to his system. It’s something he’s thought about for years but never dared to give himself the chance to hope for. And now he _has_ it, Patrick’s mouth opening under his, plush and dirty-wet and fucking fantastic, especially with the little sounds Patrick’s making low in his throat, soft little growly noises that go straight to Jonny’s dick.

“Holy fuck,” is all Jonny can think of to say, after they’ve kissed for what feels like weeks, and Patrick’s pulled back to take in a great gasp of air. There’s a thin thread of saliva connecting their lips together as he pulls away, glistening in the light of the room, and Patrick licks at it to break it before running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s hungry for the taste of Jonny. The sight of his tongue pressed into the pink wetness of his lip makes Jonny lift a hand and push his thumb against it, tipping his head back with a groan when Patrick sucks his thumb into his mouth without hesitation.

“I — I never thought —“ he manages to say, when Patrick curls his tongue around his thumb.

“Never thought that you could have me?” Pat says, sliding off his thumb with a wet pop, and Jonny can only nod dumbly.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Oh my god. I thought — I knew, I guessed that you might want me, but you never said or did a thing, Jonny, and I didn’t want to push in case I was wrong, so I waited and waited.” He leans forward to kiss Jonny again, a deep long kiss, and when he lifts his head he adds, “If I’d known this would get you on board, I’d have found some way to force myself into the change the first day of prospect camp.”

Jonny laughs, relief and joy washing over him like a tidal wave, Patrick in his arms, his for the taking, _his_. He brushes his hands through Pat’s curls, tilts his head back to expose the long pale column of his throat, and licks a slow stripe up it from clavicle to earlobe, delighting in the way Patrick shivers and clenches his thighs tighter around Jonny. When he looks down, Patrick is hard, dick blood-red against the white of his dress shirt.

“I’m going to blow you now,” Jonny says, his voice hoarse with want.

Patrick’s lip curls up at one corner. “Fucking do it, loser,” he says, and Jonny does.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] call it magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161447) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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